


Shatterglass

by Angelike



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Flash Fiction, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, POV Third Person, Partner Betrayal, Post-Betrayal, Pre-Slash, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-02
Updated: 2009-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Gwen and Lancelot's betrayal, Arthur breaks down. Merlin offers what comfort he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatterglass

Merlin says nothing when he enters the room. After well-nigh ten years of steadfast friendship and loyal service, he has learned to read his lord’s moods—and how to hold his tongue, even when he so desperately wishes to speak. Words would inspire only violence now. Still, Arthur cannot help a twinge of nostalgia when he remembers the wide-eyed youth who had once crossed every line and broke every protocol with a challenging grin and a constant litany of insults while Morgana looked on in amusement and Gwen struggled between her serventile sensibilities and fondness. That youthful innocence is lost to them now. With maturity comes wisdom. With wisdom—sacrifices.

He wonders what wisdom this new tragedy hoped to bring. “My father once told me,” Arthur says slowly, refusing to meet Merlin’s gaze—because he knows what he’ll see there, and to see it now might just break him, “that the hardships in life are meant to test us, to try our mettle and make us stronger.” The liquid in his goblet is red as blood and bitter as sorrow, rippling turbulently with the trembling in his hands. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this.”

“Arthur…” Merlin’s voice cracks on his name and falls silent. Arthur thinks Merlin might be crying—shedding the tears that he himself cannot—but he doesn’t look up from his wine. He can’t. He won’t.

“Gwen…” His breath hitches—and he gulps down the remainder of the wine with a desperate grimace and fumbles for the wineskin. He’s not drunk enough for this. There’s not enough wine _in the world_ to make this okay. “I love her, Merlin. I still love her. And Lancelot… I—I _trusted him_. How could this happen? How could I let this happen?” Was he not enough? Had he failed Gwen somehow? Failed Lancelot?

“This was _not_ your fault.”

Arthur snorts, preparing to tip back his goblet again, but suddenly his hands are empty and Merlin is kneeling between his legs and taking those empty hands in his and pressing tender lips to bloodied knuckles (he may have attacked a while earlier, but he can’t quite remember) and he’s _looking into sapphire orbs tinged with gold tinged with sorrow tinged with anger tinged with pain tinged with love friendship devotion adoration—_

“Stop it, damn you,” Arthur whispers, jerking his hands free—and finding his cheeks wet. “Damn you,” he says again. When he tries to hide his face behind one arm, Merlin refuses to let him, reaching up to cradle Arthur’s cheeks and stroke away the wetness with the pads of his thumbs. “_Damn you_.” He’s not sure whom he's cursing anymore.

“This wasn’t your fault, Arthur,” Merlin states firmly though the veil of his own silent tears. “And this isn’t a test—not of endurance, not of anything. It’s okay to cry. No one would think any less of you for it, least of all me. All that hurt deep inside you—it isn’t going to go away if you ignore it. It’ll just fester like a fetid wound, a great gnawing ache that’ll destroy you from the inside out. I won’t let you do that to yourself. Hate me if you want, _but I won’t let you hate yourself_.”

“Merlin…”

“Please, Arthur. Let go…”

And Arthur shatters, falling forward to bury his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck as he remembers the venomous sneer on Mordred’s face as he voiced his chilling accusations, how Gwen’s face had drained of blood as she met his unbelieving gaze, how Lancelot had bowed his head and offered up his sword and his life in penitence. Traitors, both of them. Love was such a cold, callous creature.

Exiled forever now. From Albion. From Camelot. From his heart.

Gone like his father and Morgana and Gaius and so many of his dear knights and companions. No one he cared about ever stayed. He was always left behind. The curse of kings.

“I’ll stay.” Merlin’s lips are chaste and warm against his temple. “You’re a prat—and a royal one. But you’re my prat and I’m not going anywhere. Not even if you want me too.”

“You never were very good at following orders,” Arthur rasps—but some of the tension inside him eases. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe one day Merlin will leave him, just like the others. But for now the illusion of security is enough.

“Haven’t we already had this conversation before? You’d get bored. And when you get bored, you wreak all sorts of havoc on the unsuspecting denizens of Camelot. Or, you know, conquer kingdoms. So, really, it’s in everyone’s best interests if I stay with you, right? Keep you out of trouble. I’m a regular martyr, I am! Putting up with your idiot antics so no one else has to—”

“Why do I let you talk to me like that?” For now, the illusion. Later he would investigate ways of making things more…permanent.


End file.
